


Gifts

by AconitumNapellus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Napollya - Freeform, Slash, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 08:31:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13678047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AconitumNapellus/pseuds/AconitumNapellus
Summary: Illya has come back injured, again, but Napoleon has a plan to get him to get some rest, and maybe some romance too.For jkkitty, for a Valentine's Day prompt to be found here https://mfu-scrapbook.livejournal.com/1372839.html





	Gifts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jkkitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jkkitty/gifts).



‘Napoleon, they’ve put something meant for you on my desk,’ Illya said rather wearily as he hobbled into the office.

His head hurt, and his leg hurt like hell, and his spine hurt, and there was something awful on his desk. It looked as if a thirteen year old girl had vomited the contents of her head onto the surface, all hearts and pink wrappings and fluffy creatures. Was that a toy scottie dog, of all things? Perhaps it was a poodle. Never having been keen on dogs, Illya hadn’t bothered to study all the different breeds.

Napoleon came to look over his shoulder, considering the contents of the table with a rather abstract expression.

‘Have you ever considered, IK, that despite your prickly exterior and apparent complete lack of interest in the fairer sex, and your awful glasses and that – ’ Napoleon shuddered, ‘ – _that_ maroon sports jacket that somehow avoids every bomb, gunshot, and muddy puddle that comes near it – Have you considered that roughly sixty percent of the female contingent of U.N.C.L.E. employees for some reason find you devastatingly attractive, and that perhaps these things might be on your desk because they were left there for you?’

He looked across at his own desk at the rather meagre, discreetly wrapped box of chocolates there. Illya gave it a momentary glance and then looked away. It was from an expensive chocolatier and was just the selection that Napoleon loved.

‘Hmm,’ he murmured, looking up at Napoleon through those tinted glasses and dropping that maroon sports jacket over the back of his chair because someone had turned up the office heating _again_. He fingered one of the cellophane wrapped baubles on the desk. ‘It’s not even Valentine’s Day.’

‘No, my dear,’ Napoleon said tolerantly. ‘Because on Valentine’s Day you were languishing in a chilly cell with an untreated broken ankle and concussion and multiple contusions. It’s only the seventeenth. I’m sure the use by date on those chocolates is months from now.’

Illya sank down into his office chair and reclined, and then straightened up again as the bruises on his spine made contact with the chair back. It hurt to stand up and it hurt to sit down, and it hurt to be awake. Sometimes being an agent just didn’t seem worth it.

‘You should be at home,’ Napoleon said meaningfully.

Illya groaned.

‘Napoleon, I have reports to write on this mission, and on the mission before, since we were called out on this one before I’d finished. We need to work out a plan for the Unicorn Affair, and Mr Waverly will want our expenses calculating and putting in, and – ’

‘Illya,’ Napoleon said firmly, pushing a pink-wrapped box of chocolates across the table to him with a single finger. ‘We got off the plane an hour ago. We’re still on Munich time. The doctors there told you to keep your foot up as much as possible and to get some rest. If you don’t start taking doctor’s orders seriously then I’ll have to start drugging you to make you do as you’re told.’

He picked up the box of chocolates and unwrapped the garish pink paper and opened the lid. He plucked out the largest chocolate there, a heart shaped thing, and popped it in through Illya’s parted lips.

‘Eat your chocolates and be quiet,’ Napoleon told him firmly, so Illya chewed, and swallowed, and –

‘Oh, I feel very sleepy all of a sudden,’ he murmured.

‘That’ll be the jet lag,’ Napoleon assured him.

‘No, I – ’

He really was so very sleepy. It was like a shroud being pulled down over him. His mind struggled to go through the possible reasons. The jet lag. The concussion. The chocolate – How stupid he had been to eat a chocolate from a box that he hadn’t thoroughly checked.

‘Napoleon, the chocolate – ’ he tried to say, but the dark took him.

  


((O))

  


Napoleon caught his partner as he slumped, stepping in so that Illya’s head lolled against his hip, and smiled. He reached for another chocolate out of the box, sniffed it lightly, then put it in his mouth and ate it. They really were very good.

‘Thank you, Nancy. You did everything to a T,’ he said to the air with a grin, and he carefully leant Illya back into his chair, and started to tidy up the various garish packages on the desk into a cardboard box.

Illya started to lean sideways a bit again, grunting in a state of light unconsciousness, and Napoleon straightened him up again. He touched the intercom button and called Nancy in communications, and a moment later she was at the office door, regarding Illya with her arms folded.

‘It worked, then?’ she said in a tone of satisfaction.

‘Yeah, it worked,’ Napoleon said, distracted by his attempts to keep Illya from slipping out of the chair. ‘Look, can you carry that box for me? I need to manage Sleeping Beauty here. Can you do that?’

‘Oh, of course,’ she said, peering into the box at the jazzy pink selection inside. ‘Do you really think he’ll want all this stuff, though?’

Napoleon grinned. ‘Had your eye on it for the typing pool, eh? No, once he strips off the glitz it’s all shortbread and candy. He’ll devour it without looking back.’

‘You think he’ll even want this?’ Nancy asked with a raised eyebrow, plucking out the fluffy white miniature dog and holding it against her chest.

‘ _Especially_ that,’ Napoleon nodded. ‘I’ll get you your own if you like it that much, but this one is Illya’s.’

Nancy sighed and placed the dog carefully back in the box. ‘No, I can live without a stuffed dog. It’s just, not every girl is lucky enough to get something like that from the great Napoleon Solo.’

Napoleon smiled and let go of Illya for a moment to draw Nancy towards him and kiss her briefly but sensuously on the lips. She smelt of perfume and hairspray and lipstick, and it was delightful kissing her, but there was something rather pleasant and different about kissing someone who didn’t have all that stuff plastered on their face.

‘Thank you, Nancy, dear,’ he said. ‘Thank you for doing all this for me. You know he’d never obey doctor’s orders without a little enforcement, and after all, I am an enforcement agent.’

She smiled a little dazedly after that kiss, but she picked up the box and went to open the office door as Napoleon heaved Illya into his arms and settled his limp form against his chest.

  


((O))

  


He woke slowly, his mind waking before his eyes. Someone was humming. It was warm, and there was something light covering him. He tried to lift a hand to his head, but for some reason it wouldn’t move. For some reason there was something very soft stopping it. He moved his head, and accidentally pressed the large bruise on his temple against something soft. Some Thrush goon had left him with that in Munich, hadn’t he? But he’d got home. He was sure he’d got home after that.

‘Ouch,’ he said, opening his eyes.

There were eyes staring back at him; black, bead-like eyes, curiously fixed and surrounded by white fur.

He didn’t quite realise it was a stuffed toy before he could stop himself from jerking backwards in reflex fear. The toy was very close to his face, but behind it he could see an array of pink stuff, and behind that, Napoleon.

‘What – ?’ he began, trying to sit up, trying to lift a hand again to rub his eyes. But there was something holding him down, something very soft at both wrists. It was something binding him, wasn’t it? He tried to reconcile all these conflicting pointers. Napoleon. Drugs. Soft toys. Restraints.

He moved a little, wincing at the aching in his back and blinking in the light. He was lying on a low settee, a blanket over him up to his chest, in a place he had never seen before.

‘Ah, welcome back, Rip Van Winkle,’ Napoleon said with a gentle smile and a brightness in his eyes that made Illya very suspicious.

He tried moving his wrists again, and he couldn’t. They were held down at his sides by something that he thought went around his body. It was a kind of belt that wrapped around his body, and the cuffs were attached to it. Very soft, they were. He experimented with his feet, and remembered the cast on his left ankle. Neither of them would move, though. There was something there again, soft but firm, holding his legs right where they were.

‘ _Napoleon_ ,’ he said.

‘Mmm-hmm?’ Napoleon asked in an archly innocent tone.

He was sitting opposite him in a comfortable armchair, Illya saw, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. Between them was a coffee table which was covered in those garish gifts.

‘Napoleon, what in hell is this?’ he asked.

Napoleon smiled sweetly. ‘This is rest,’ he said. ‘Waverly ratified, agent-enforced rest.’

Illya jerked against the restraints again. This was unbelievable.

‘Napoleon, let me go!’ he said indignantly.

Napoleon opened the box of chocolates on the table, the same box of chocolates that had held the heart shaped sweet that had drugged him into a long unconsciousness. He plucked out a chocolate and held it between finger and thumb.

‘Why don’t you open up and have a candy?’ he asked.

Illya turned his mouth away. ‘And be drugged again?’ he asked.

Napoleon popped the sweet in as he spoke. ‘It was only one that was drugged. The rest are fine,’ he said.

Illya held the chocolate in his mouth for a moment, until it started to melt and saliva started to flow. It was almost impossible to avoid chewing and swallowing. The chocolate tasted  _so_ good, and this was Napoleon, and despite his trussed state, he trusted him.

‘Are you going to let me go?’ he said once he had swallowed.

‘Are you going to promise to be a good boy and stay put?’ Napoleon asked silkily. It was amazing how Napoleon could make anything sound like flirting.

Illya strained a little against the cuffs, wondering exactly what they were. It was like something one might use to restrain the insane or the vulnerable, to stop them hurting themselves. Where on earth had Napoleon been shopping? It made his back ache to fight against them, though, so he stopped testing their limits and relaxed. He cogitated the words  _stay put._ What did they really mean? They were extraordinarily vague. There was no time limit on them. He could stay put for, say, thirty seconds, before walking out of the door, if he wanted to.

‘I promise I will stay put,’ he said, making his tone rather more weary than he actually felt.

‘All right,’ Napoleon said, and he got up out of the armchair and came over to Illya. First he unbuckled the cuffs about his ankles. They were padded leather straps, and Napoleon laid them over the back of the settee. Then he turned his attention to the ones about Illya’s wrists, first unbuckling the waist strap and then each cuff before pulling it out from under him and dropping it lightly on his chest.

‘Where did you even get these?’ Illya asked, fingering the soft and padded leather.

Napoleon grinned and said, ‘I have contacts, my dear Kuryakin.’

‘In an insane asylum, no doubt,’ Illya said darkly.

He rubbed his wrists, although they didn’t hurt at all. Now he was free he sat up, shaking a little fogginess out of his head, and resting back against the arm of the settee. He was quite happy keeping his aching ankle elevated.

He looked rather suspiciously around the room. It was a cosy sitting room with just that settee and single armchair, decorated in contemporary style, with a fashionable wood stove like an alien spacecraft sitting proud of the wall, the metal chimney reaching up into the ceiling above. There was a fire burning. When he glanced through the window all he could see was trees with snow on their branches.

‘Where are we?’ he asked.

‘We are in a beautiful cottage three miles from the local town – and that is all you need to know, partner mine,’ Napoleon said.

Illya patted a hand at the blanket over his chest, and then looked underneath. He was wearing no more than an undershirt and underpants.

‘Napoleon, where are my clothes?’ he asked indignantly. ‘Give me my clothes.’

‘Ah, I can’t do that,’ Napoleon said a trifle regretfully. ‘While you’re stubborn enough to make a break for it in your underwear, you’re not stupid enough to do that in freezing temperatures and a foot of snow. So no clothes. No shoes. No running away.’

‘Running away?’ Illya echoed. ‘On this leg?’

‘I know you,’ Napoleon said seriously.

‘And how long are you keeping me here?’

‘Oh, only a few days,’ his partner smiled. ‘So, what will it be? Scotch, brandy, or are you going to go savage and have slivovitz?’

Illya grumbled a little, but then he said, ‘Brandy, I think. It would seem to go with the snow. It wasn’t snowing in New York, was it?’

‘Uh, no, it wasn’t. But we’re a little further north than that.’

Napoleon stood up and sauntered over to a drinks cabinet that was set behind the settee. Illya watched him as he poured two brandies, and then handed one over the back to the Russian. He sipped it, and as the alcohol hit his stomach he began to feel a little happier about this enforced rest.

‘How long am I here for?’ he asked, making his voice sound rather more gruff than he felt.

‘Four days and three nights,’ Napoleon said.

‘Ah,’ Illya said.

  


((O))

  


The winter day darkened softly into a winter evening. Snow was falling again, and Napoleon kept the fire high with wood, and kept a steady but controlled stream of drinks on offer, along with various snacks. Somehow he had managed to stock the place with all of Illya’s favourites, things he didn’t even realise were favourites until one after another Napoleon brought them from the kitchen and presented them to him. Illya’s stomach was full and he was just warmed and softened with enough alcohol to make everything seem pleasant and easy.

‘This isn’t a Thrush trap, is it?’ he asked rather suddenly, looking at Napoleon with narrowed eyes. ‘No doubles, no disguises?’

Napoleon smiled. ‘Ask me a question, Illya.’

Illya’s eyes narrowed. ‘How about the scar on your upper left thigh?’

‘I don’t have a scar there,’ Napoleon said promptly.

‘Hmm,’ Illya said. It was true. That was one of the few places on Napoleon that had come through his agent’s life unblemished. ‘All right, then. The scar across the knuckles on your right hand.’

‘Ah,’ Napoleon said, leaning forward and presenting the hand for Illya’s scrutiny. He took it in his own, and examined the back. The scar was perfectly as he remembered it, a thin white line threading across two of his knuckles.

‘So, which mission did you get that on?’ Illya asked.

Napoleon’s eyes sparkled. ‘Well, it was a very serious mission,’ he said, his face extremely grave. ‘I was assigned to deliver a package to an elderly lady. I decided it would be faster if I went on my red tricycle with the blue handlebars. As I went down the hill I approached the corner at far too fast a speed, and I overturned, spilling a freshly baked apple pie, and myself, into the gutter. I cut my hand on a piece of glass lying on the ground.’

‘And?’ Illya asked cautiously, and Napoleon grinned.

‘And I cried, but I also ate what I could of the smashed up apple pie.’

‘All right,’ Illya nodded.

He was rather more convinced. Unless somehow Thrush had resurrected Merlin’s electronic thought translator, he couldn’t imagine how they could have got hold of that story.

Napoleon’s hand was still in his, as if they both had forgotten to let go. It was very comfortable. He didn’t feel inclined to let go any time soon. He was struck by how soft Napoleon’s fingers were, considering the life he led.

‘Well, then,’ Illya asked. ‘What would you do if you found yourself in close quarters with someone who gave you a white carnation harbouring a spider?’

Napoleon laughed. ‘I would let you deal with the spider, my dear,’ he said, ‘and I would kiss Angelique, but I would take great care to keep hold of my gun.’

‘Someday you must teach me how it’s possible to spontaneously respond to any lady with a kiss, regardless of her morals or background,’ Illya said a little darkly.

‘Well, Illya, kissing doesn’t exactly involve the higher brain,’ Napoleon said, leaning a little closer in his armchair. He was sitting right on the edge, so his knees were touching the settee on which Illya was lying. ‘Someone leans in to you and presents their lips, and you kiss them.’

Illya shook his head. It just seemed impossible to him.

‘I don’t know how. Don’t a hundred thoughts run through your head? Is she trying to distract me? Is she wearing poisoned lipstick? Do I want to kiss her? Is she worth kissing? Is she married?’

‘Illya, if that many thoughts ran through my head I would never kiss anyone,’ Napoleon told him plainly. ‘You need to learn the ancient art of surrendering to the kiss. You analyse afterwards. First, you kiss.’

‘And then you die,’ Illya said.

‘So far I have a hundred percent success rate,’ Napoleon assured him. ‘Her lips touch yours, and you kiss. Just like taking a step. You don’t think about unbalancing yourself so you move forwards. You just lift your foot and do it.’

‘But I have been walking since I was ten months old,’ Illya pointed out. ‘And that was without the consideration that my next step might be on a landmine.’

‘What you need is a safe space,’ Napoleon told him. ‘You need someone to kiss whom you trust.’

Illya laughed. ‘And who on earth would that be?’

Napoleon shrugged. ‘The kind of person for whom you’d buy chocolates from La Belle Époque for Valentine’s Day?’ he asked lightly.

Illya felt a sudden little flush of warmth that threatened to reach his cheeks. Surely Napoleon must get so many Valentine’s trinkets from all the women who hung around him like flies? Surely a single box of chocolates with no card or wrapping couldn’t stand out?

‘I don’t know that I’ve ever bought a woman chocolates from La Belle Époque,’ he said.

Not a woman. Never a woman.

Could Napoleon read it on his face? He was used to controlling the expression of his feelings, but it was different in front of Napoleon. It had always been different.

‘Well,’ Napoleon said, and he was leaning closer still. ‘I must say, I appreciate a person who knows me well enough to know exactly which chocolates I prefer. I appreciate a person who would spend the kind of money that place charges, and not even sign their name on a card to go with it. It speaks of – hmm – Well, it speaks of a certain modesty, and generosity of heart.’

‘I’m sure you know a lot of women like that,’ Illya said, although he really wasn’t so sure.

Suddenly Napoleon was very close indeed, then his lips were touching Illya’s, soft and warm. For a moment Illya froze, and Napoleon stopped too and said, with his lips still so close that they brushed Illya’s skin, ‘A little training never hurts anyone, Illya. When a person unexpectedly kisses you, you give yourself to the kiss. Shall we try again?’

‘I – ’ Illya began, but Napoleon’s lips were against his again, Napoleon’s hand at the back of his head, his fingers threading through Illya’s hair. And suddenly he fell. Suddenly all hesitation just dropped away. He found himself utterly lost, feeling only the softness and heat of Napoleon’s mouth, and then the little flicker of his tongue. He opened his lips to admit that tongue, and the taste of Napoleon flooded into his mouth, and Napoleon’s fingertips caressed at the back of his head, and he forgot to do anything but kiss.

‘And breathe,’ Napoleon was saying. ‘Illya. You can breathe now.’

He was breathing, but the world seemed to have changed. Napoleon seemed to have changed. He had been his partner, a man he worked with almost every day, a man who made shivers start inside him when he saw him, but remained just his partner, just a man he worked with, and a friend. But now – what had he become? It was as if that kiss had melted a layer of glass away, and he was seeing him without that tiny distortion, as if he had discovered something more of the real man.

‘Napoleon, did you just – ?’ he began.

‘Did you leave chocolates from La Belle Époque on my desk?’ Napoleon asked.

‘Well, I – ’

The truth was, he had slipped the chocolates onto Napoleon’s desk as they left the office for the mission which had resulted in concussion and a broken ankle. Napoleon had been eyeing one of the typing pool down the corridor, and hadn’t noticed a thing. He had never expected Napoleon to find out who had left them, but he had wanted to give him something. He had felt a little pathetic in the strength of that need to give Napoleon a Valentine’s gift.

‘Illya?’ Napoleon asked, and his voice was soft, almost teasing. It was a voice Illya loved and could never resist.

‘Yes,’ Illya said, because after that kiss there was little point in lying. ‘I know they are your favourites. And all of that – that frippery on my desk?’

Napoleon grinned. ‘All of that frippery,’ he said, and his eyes never left Illya’s. ‘Every piece of it. I got one of the girls to do it while we were away. Oh no, don’t worry,’ he said quickly, as Illya’s face fell. ‘I called from the bathroom during the flight home and asked Nancy to do it. She’s the least likely to gossip of anyone in HQ, and I covered it all in the guise of getting you to take some needed leave to recover. I am an agent, after all.’

‘Ah,’ Illya said.

It was so very Napoleon; all those very flashy gifts which at their centre, once all the gauze and finery was removed, were everything that he loved. So like Napoleon to be able to wind someone around his little finger to help him do such a thing. So like Napoleon to dissemble beautifully, so no one would ever suspect his true motives.

‘You didn’t trip me deliberately, did you, just to get me injured?’ he asked then, with narrowed eyes.

‘Ah, no,’ Napoleon said delicately. ‘That was a pure accident. If you hadn’t been injured I would have thought of some other premise. After all, you were due a little time off.’

‘I’m not sure this is time off,’ Illya said very seriously.

‘Huh?’ Napoleon asked, looking around at the comfortable little room and the flickering fire. ‘Well, if this isn’t time off – ?’

‘No,’ Illya said, and he leant a little closer to Napoleon, eyes fixed intently on his lips. ‘This isn’t time off at all. For the sake of my job, I want to spend the next few days practising spontaneous kissing.’


End file.
